Archmage: The Neverwinter Guild
by Mithrandir2k1
Summary: Five years have passed since her brother ascended to the halls of the gods; five years in which Imoen's powers have done naught but grow. Now she will attempt to found a new kind of Thieves' Guild, with the aid of an old friend and some new allies...
1. An Introduction - The Meeting...

Note: This fic is set some five years after the events in BG2:TOB contains spoilers relating to the plot of BG2:SOA&TOB. If you haven't yet finished these MOST EXCELLENT games, and don't want the ending ruined for you, do so and THEN read this fic.  
  
This is my first attempt at a fan fiction, btw, so I implore you to take that into account when reading and reviewing it :-) Baldur's Gate etc. is copyrighted by Interplay, Bioware and Wizards of the Coast – lovely people who have given us a series of games as deep and involving and downright fun. I intend this to be the first chapter of several, but only if people want to read it. If you want more, tell me in your reviews! ;-)  
  
  
  
  
  
In the forest of Neverwinter, there is a Clearing. There are many clearings within the sprawling green mass, but you would know the instant you stepped into this one; it contains a hillock from which you can see the snow-land beauty that is the Spine of the World, and the Sea of Swords is clearly visible to the west. And, of course, its most notable feature: were you to walk into this Clearing without an invitation, several arrows would have been trained on your bobbing Adam's apple since an hour before your arrival.  
  
It is in this Clearing that the Guild has its Headquarters, and has had for some time. The Guild or, as they are sometimes known, the Mageling Circle, was created some years ago by one of the kindest and gentlest souls ever to grace the Realms. It is this inception, and the adventures of this individual, to which our history refers. For it was the pleasure of this Bard, and indeed the honour, to have fought alongside this heroic adventurer in the names of justice and of freedom. And so I shall end this preface and move from the present to the distant past, shortly before my own acquaintance with either the Guild or the heroes associated with it.  
  
******  
  
The creation of an independent Guild of Thieves anywhere along the Sword Coast, and by 'independent' I mean one not associated with the Shadow Thieves, is no simple matter by any stretch of the imagination. Indeed it is a dangerous endeavour, and normally leads to brevity of existence for all involved; Shadowmasters take not kindly to those that would encroach upon their territory. And so it would have taken an extraordinary individual to form an independent Guild that did not merely operate in one Shadow Thief city, but operated in nigh on all of them.  
  
Such an individual was sat on a log in this very clearing on a warm Flamerule evening some ten years ago. A burgundy, hooded robe hid the figure's features as it absently shaped a piece of lump-wood with a small craft-knife. This spot had been chosen for the Meeting – a meeting that would go down in history – because it was off the beaten track, while not being too difficult for practitioners of the Larcenous Arts to find; given sufficient direction, of course.  
  
The sun was setting when two such practitioners, Guildmasters of the Shadow Thieves, arrived in the Clearing. Chairs had been prepared for them; well, chairs was the wrong word – the roots of the surrounding trees and been coaxed from their rest beneath the Earth and had knotted and twisted themselves in such a way as to make for several comfortable seats. Likewise, the larger roots had rose up and bound themselves to make a table, around which the seats were, that the meeting might have an official air, even though it was possessed of a natural, relaxed demeanour; very much like the host. It should give the reader an idea as to what esteem the 'host' of this Meeting was held in, that the spirits of the trees would adhere to these requests thus, with no need for any form of magical coercion.  
  
The elder, and evidently senior of the two Shadow Thieves, bowed to their host. He cast an angered glance at his seemingly younger companion when, defiantly, the boy merely nodded his head vaguely in the robed figure's direction before taking his seat. Shortly afterwards, two members of the local grove of Druids arrived. They were mildly taken aback by the display of manipulated nature before them, but at the psychic assurance of the dryads and spirits of the woodland that they had consented, they took their seats only mildly awed that any non-Druid could have earned such respect from Mother Nature.  
  
Just before the last rays of the sun crept beyond the horizon, two men in mage's robes, both extremely familiar to all present, though only known personally to the host, entered the clearing. Their arrival caused the younger Shadow Thief to start from his chair, but his superior's hand was swiftly forcing him back down. One of the wizards, wearing a flame-red robe and possessed of a grand white beard, grinned. The other, a much harsher person in both manner and mannerisms, was wearing entirely black. He carried a black staff at his side and, though once it had been merely a symbol, the host noted that the wizard seemed to be using it more as a crutch nowadays. Old age overlooked nobody forever, it appeared; not even the Chosen of Mystra.  
  
Now that the entire expected company was present, the host stood up from the log and placed the knife and carving on the ground. The effect was quite startling; the setting sun at the host's back created a silhouette that made even the wizard in black shudder. The sun's light faded, and at that point one last person entered the clearing.  
  
He was a broad man, and tall. His bald head bore a purple tattoo, and his prematurely aged face seemed to bear a childlike expression of innocence most of the time. He wore armour forged from Gorgon Hide, its green matching the trees that seemed to close up behind him. His belt bore twin sheaths; from both protruded ancient Dwarven hammers. The fabled Helm of Balduran hung about his shoulders, dangling by its leather chin-strap. All of this pointed to a seasoned warrior; a man that was not to be trifled with, lest his innocent face would darken to anger and the merry Abyss come to those that wronged him. What spoiled the effect was the yellowish hamster perched on his right shoulder.  
  
"Boo says we got everybody, yes?"  
  
His thick, Rashemen accent boomed out across the Clearing, causing some birds to scatter and some animals to take shelter.  
  
The host simply nodded, and the warrior sat himself down on the now- vacated log, with a sickening crack that indicated the log would now be of little use to any not wearing splinter-proof breaches. The host grinned, though none could see it behind the oversized hood. And so the last seat, at the head of the table, was filled. And, almost immediately, the impatient Shadow Thief spoke.  
  
"What are THEY doing here?" His senior attempted to silence him but, in this instance, the younger man would not be moved, "Harper! And no less than the fabled Elminster! And Khelben 'Blackstaff'!? I KNEW this was a setup!"  
  
The senior Shadowmaster interrupted, "I must apologise on behalf of my friend. The journey has been long and arduous, and he has not borne it well. I extend the good will of my guild to you, High Harper Elminster; to Master Arunsun of Waterdeep; and to those Druidic persons present, and, of course, to our benevolent host."  
  
His younger companion again subsided, only for the mage in black, known as Khelben 'Blackstaff' Arunsun – for the black staff he had carried for as long as any could remember – to shoot up from his chair and begin ranting, "Thieves! From my own city! I and my Moonstars will have your heads!"  
  
That rebuke aggravated both Shadowmasters to the point where they began clamouring slurs and curses to the mage. The two druids stood up, trying to calm the three down, only to get caught up in the argument themselves. The only people not arguing were the host; Elminster, the mage in red; and the Rashemen Warrior, although he did seem to be holding an extended discussion with the hamster on his shoulder. The host, and Elminster, both grinned.  
  
Slowly, the host raised a rod which had been concealed in the robe's right sleeve. With one wave, a sea of silence descended upon the table. It took the 'delegates' a few moments to realise that their voices were no longer working, and Elminster wished he could have painted a portrait of the moment when the fact became known to them, of their expressions as they turned to face their host, who had swiftly concealed the small ensorcelled rod about its person.  
  
'Blackstaff' cast a vicious glare at the robed figure before reclaiming his seat, and the silenced thieves merely looked at one another in mild astonishment before eventually sitting down once more. The druids smiled at their host, whose method of solving an argument was possibly the most ingenious they had ever come across.  
  
After a few moments under the influence of magical silence, their voices returned. This time, however, they used them more wisely, and introduced themselves. As had already been made plain, the Harper was the famed mage Elminster. The mage in black, Khelben Arunsun, was Lord Mage of Waterdeep and leader of a splinter-group of Harpers known as the Moonstars. The 'elder' thief was Shadowmaster Aran Linvail of Athkatla, who was acquainted with both the Rashemen and the host, and thus knew of the danger his friend had placed them in by crossing them. That younger thief was actually older than his fellow, and was the recently gazetted Shadowmaster of Waterdeep, an impetuous Elf with a mere ninety years of age behind him who went by the name Mourn Moondown. The druids were Pashar and Daelric, representatives of the Grove that inhabited this very wood. Beyond that, only two introductions remained. Well, three.  
  
The host, silently, nodded to the Rashemen on his log, who loyally stood up and spoke, in his thick accent.  
  
"I am Minsc, Warrior of the Ice Dragon Berserker Lodge. And this is Boo, my miniature Giant Space Hamster. I am here to protect my Witch, who sits before you."  
  
He sat back down and continued his discussion with the hamster, which left only the host to be introduced. The figure stood up, threw back her hood and shook her naturally purple hair out of the robe's confines. Once it had been shorter than this; when she had first begun magical practises and had more than one accident as a result of the age-old Burning Hands spell. Now it had grown back to a happier length, and it seemed to have regained some colour, though Elminster suspected the young woman's prowess in the Art was responsible for that. Her fair skin was free of blemish, though two or three scars could be seen about her otherwise perfect face; remnants of battles long-since forgotten. Her blue-green eyes still shone with the innocence of a small child, though behind the glow they held a sagacity that was difficult to describe. Burgundy, Elminster noted, was definitely her colour.  
  
She stood for a few long moments, her grace and beauty causing the men present to forget themselves and required them time to pick their jaws up from the ground beneath them; even the Elf was astonished by her prettiness, and he had always considered human women bland without exception. The one woman present, Pashar, simply smiled; she knew the game that the young mage was playing, and was moderately impressed at how well she played it.  
  
When the host eventually did speak, it was one sentence:  
  
"Heya, it's just me – Imoen..."  
  
******  
  
"You cannot be serious!" Linvail raised his voice slightly as his eyes scanned the paper before him. It was a manifesto of sorts, and its contents caused him some great consternation. "It will never work, Lady. And my fellow Guildmasters will be, shall we say, as difficult to convince otherwise as I am, myself."  
  
"It is a difficult preposition for us, Imoen." Elminster's sage tones chimed in. "The Harper's are very much against organised crime; as Master Linvail will tell you. Asking us no less than to authorise such an endeavour is to place us in a very compromising position."  
  
Arunsun nodded, although his expression remained thoughtful. Likewise, Mourn appeared deep in thought, though the way his eyes drifted frequently to the young mage indicated his thoughts were on another matter entirely. The druids had withdrawn to the edge of the Clearing so they might discuss the matter privately.  
  
"I'm not asking you to authorise it, Elmo. I just want your assurance that we shall go unmolested by the Harpers until we are strong enough an organisation to survive such molestation, that's all. Besides, the Harpers are dedicated to Balance; this is an attempt to introduce a balance."  
  
"To view it as such requires a great deal of lateral thinking child." Arunsun spoke, finally.  
  
"How come? You have not shut down the Shadow Thieves who are, if you gentlemen will forgive me," she glanced to Linvail and Moondown, "by and large, an evil organisation. I merely propose the creation of a Guild dedicated to the ideal of stealing from the evil forces of the world; and defending those of good report from the Shadow Thieves and those like them. In your adventuring days, Elmo, I heard you gathered quite the hoard courtesy of those evils you despatched to the Abyss."  
  
Elmo was Imoen's pet name for Elminster, and only she could use it without fear of reprisal from the wily old mage. This was mainly due to her foster Father's extensive involvement with the Harpers, though she liked to think that her own accomplishments had earned her some respect, too.  
  
"But that's different..."  
  
"I don't see how."  
  
"Nor do I, Elminster." Arunsun spoke again, astonishing his old friend.  
  
"You would support this?" Elminster asked, incredulously.  
  
"I will not support any Guilds of Thieves within my fair city. I would not, however, hinder its development, though should it alter the Balance greatly my organisation would have no option but to intervene. Besides, an independent Guild that is prepared to let itself be hired as guards as well as 'procurers' could be of use to me. Assuming I qualify for a discounted rate." Khelben elaborated.  
  
"Our Guild will have none of it. A rival Thieves' Guild working within our own cities? Never." Linvail stated.  
  
"Scared of a little healthy competition? I'm not Bohdi, y'know. Not any more." Her tone darkened as she reminded the old thief what she had gone through at the time of their last meeting; experiences that were due in no small part to his actions. He had the good grace to lower his face, embarrassed.  
  
"I'm scared of ending up in competition with those who have training in BOTH of the shadowed Arts. You propose a guild composed of Mages and Thieves."  
  
"But no assassins", she added, "They go against my principle of 'Don't kill if you can possibly avoid it'."  
  
Linvail conceded the point that they wouldn't cross paths with the Shadow Thieves in every area of the market. "I cannot speak for the Guild on something of this magnitude. When you invited me, I assumed you wished to be granted the rank of Shadowmaster; which I came prepared to convey upon you. I had no idea you had a project of this scope in mind. You ask us to give you time to build a Guild that will be at loggerheads with ours as soon as it is completed: some might call such a request unreasonable."  
  
"We wouldn't do much business south of Baldur's Gate in any case. I would aim to centre our activities on the Neverwinter area, which is why I specifically asked you to bring the new Shadowmaster of Waterdeep; he will be my closest 'competition'."  
  
Mourn did not respond. Instead, he stood up and walked over to the edge of the Clearing, deep in thought. As he did so, the two Druids returned. Pashar spoke for them.  
  
"We are, in principle, in favour of this guild's creation, so long as it remains true to the mandates you have laid down for it. It will be allowed to operate freely in the Neverwinter forest provided it in no way threatens the Balance of Nature that we have cultivated here."  
  
"I would not dream of affecting that balance, my Lady." Imoen bowed, and smiled.  
  
Arunsun spoke, once more. "I have decided to grant you the half-year you request to put your house in order. For that period, you will not be the subject of any interest from my organisation or the guards of my City. If you take advantage of me, however, and make yourself fat on six months of free burglary, I shall kill you, personally."  
  
At this threat, Minsc made a move to stand but a subtle gesture from Imoen had him sit back down with merely a grumble of displeasure at his Witch being thus abused.  
  
Elminster, having considered all the options, slowly nodded. "Very well. You have your time to set up. The condition of this, however, is that one mage in thirty and one thief in thirty that you recruit shall be a Harper. They will ensure we are made aware if you attempt to seriously alter the Balance."  
  
Imoen nodded; she had expected such a condition, and welcomed it. Harpers were chosen because of their abilities within their trade; having one in thirty of her troops Harpers would tip favour in combat towards her, and if publicised correctly, would deter people from attacking her guild members.  
  
Linvail stood his ground and refused to answer either way.  
  
All was going as she had expected. She was confident that the Shadow Thieves would let her be; maybe they would make one or two attempts upon her life, but once those failed they would leave her alone. Convinced that this brought the Meeting to a close, she waved her hand and the forest opened itself once again.  
  
"I thank all of you for your time, and wish you a safe journey home."  
  
This swift and unexpected dismissal took most of her guests aback; barring Elminster whom virtually nothing surprised; and Minsc, who stood up to escort the guests away from the Clearing back to the paths of Neverwinter Forest. The Druids bowed to Imoen, and left silently.  
  
Blackstaff did likewise, casting a curious glance at Elminster when the other mage did not make to leave, but did not question his old friend's motives for staying.  
  
"I see that we have overstayed our welcome, Mistress Imoen. Very well, I shall take my leave, along with Mourn, and shall give you a response from our Guild within two Tenday." Linvail bowed and left, led by Minsc and followed by Mourn.  
  
Once all was quiet, Elminster and Imoen standing alone in the Clearing, the roots of the trees began withdrawing into the ground. Imoen turned to the eldest of the trees and knelt before it, kissing her fingers and then touching the base of its trunk. She remained there for a few moments.  
  
In silence, voices carry; more-so than they do in the bustle of a street. And Imoen had exceptional hearing. She could not make out the noise of the druids, for they were even more knowledgeable of woodlore than she, and Blackstaff seemed to have teleported himself somewhere beyond her observation. But she could hear the thieves.  
  
"So what do you think?" That was Linvail.  
  
"I think today was very profitable." Mourn.  
  
"How so?"  
  
"Well, me handling a little competition will serve to show the Council of Shadowmasters that I deserve a more prestigious locale than Waterdeep."  
  
"You fancy my job, Moondown?"  
  
"Oh yes, Aran. But I fear I have not the stomach to live in that stench-ridden city of yours, teeming with unwashed Humans and Halflings. No offence."  
  
"None taken."  
  
"And besides, I finally met her."  
  
"Who?" Aran's voice was distant; he was thinking again.  
  
"Her, of course! Possibly the fairest human in the Realms: Imoen Bhaalspawn."  
  
The last word reverberated throughout the forest. In a split second, Imoen had risen to her feet and flung her arms into the air. Elminster recognised the opening gesture of an incantation and had the good sense to hide behind one of the trees. The instant transformation from innocent maiden, in need of her huge Rashemen to protect her, to an Archmage who was of such awesome power that she had turned down overtures from the Harpers, Drizz't Do'Urden, the Shadow Thieves, the Hathran Sisterhood and even the Red Mages of Thay without so much as a word of reprisal, was utterly astounding. Her blue-green eyes, eyes which would have caused much greater stirring within the heart of Elminster were he thirty years younger, turned pure obsidian, then burned bright with the fire of a hundred suns as she began to call the triggering phrase of the spell.  
  
"Ilsertum Meras Polostrassa!"  
  
She heard Linvail give a yelp of surprise, but not so much surprise as was contained within the 'yip' give by his companion, whom Imoen had transformed into a pretty little tricolour cocker spaniel. Elminster appeared from behind his tree and placed a hand on the young mage's shoulder. She snapped around, but calmed down instantly as she remembered herself, the fire in her eyes dying.  
  
"You shouldn't have done that, my girl." Elminster's voice was so like Gorion's at times that it brought a tear to Imoen's eye.  
  
"I'm not a Bhaalspawn... Not any more. I'm just Imoen..." She sniffed.  
  
"I know, I know. How long?" Elminster asked, curiously.  
  
"He'll change back in about three hours. I was feeling generous; I've never been described in such a complimentary fashion before... But..."  
  
"Don't worry, Imoen. I think you handled them all very well. Especially Khelben. He was the worry, in my book. If his little splinter group, not to mention his city Guard had decided to cause you grief your Guild would have had no chance."  
  
Imoen sat on the grass, legs crossed, and smiled up at the old mage.  
  
"They trust me, I think. An irony; I'm the last of my kind, the last of the progeny of Bhaal to walk the world of Toril, and they hated us for so long... And yet, now, they trust me."  
  
"You have earned their trust, my dear, and their respect. I assure you that only you could have put forward that proposal without finding yourself skewered by Linvail, then incinerated by Arunsun; even I would have been met with more hostility than yourself." He paused, then gave her a fatherly embrace because the one man she would have wanted to see her now could not hug her himself. "You handled yourself as a grown woman, and a Great Mage. You honour Gorion in the way you have blossomed; his tutelage has not gone to waste."  
  
"I hope not, Sir..."  
  
There was an awkward pause before Elminster spoke again. "I heard you found the lost tower of Paelios the Great... And in it, I'd wager, his Spellbook?"  
  
Imoen nodded, quietly, and pulled away. "And his twisted Demi-Lich, who did not want to part with it."  
  
Elminster saw a memory of pain flash across Imoen's face, and he winced in sympathy. "Evidently you were victorious. Congratulations – I am unsure as to whether I would have survived such a battle, given my frail health."  
  
"I was victorious at no small cost, I assure you. But he will trouble Faerûn no more."  
  
Elminster raised an eyebrow. She seemed to have her health, and she had demonstrated with her casting that her mind was well enough; her Rashemen had not perished, and she travelled with few companions besides him. What loss could be so grave and yet so concealed? Still, he reasoned she would tell him when and if she wished to. "Did you find-?"  
  
"Yes!" She interrupted, her voice breaking with grief. "Yes, I found it. And it didn't work..."  
  
Elminster lowered his head. It had been a long shot – no, it had been longer than a long-shot. "There may be other ways?"  
  
"No... This was my last chance. I failed him."  
  
"Poppycock!" The elder wizard interrupted. "You have given three years of your life to this task – a task I doubt he would have appointed to you, in any case. Do you think he would wish to see you suffer so?"  
  
"He risked all, sacrificed much, to save me from Jon Irenicus, when I was imprisoned for nothing less than my own impudence and stupidity."  
  
"Have you forgotten so much already, child?"  
  
"I am NO CHILD!" Her grief turned to anger. The elderly wizard before her wished for the entire world that he might relieve her of this self- imposed burden.  
  
"He rescued you because you and he shared a bond greater than love, life OR death. You were kinfolk in spirit long before you knew of the blood- ties you bore. I ask you again, would he wish you to suffer thus on his behalf?"  
  
"Of course not..."  
  
"Then why do you punish yourself so?" Elminster's voice was soft.  
  
"Because he left her – he left them both in MY care! Don't you understand that? He left her, and his unborn child, when he took up the mantle of the immortal. And it was my responsibility to care for them."  
  
"Do you think Aerie blames you?"  
  
"I know she does... She will not see me, even now." Imoen's voice was quavering, and Elminster feared she may lose control completely, but she regained her composure. "I was responsible for her son's death; for the death of my nephew. If I had been there, as I swore I would, when the earth shook-"  
  
"You would have been buried in the mountain as well, that is all. You are powerful, Lady Imoen, but even you cannot stand up to Nature Herself. 'No one man can shore up a mountain'."  
  
"'But likewise, no one man can rent it asunder.'" She finished the quotation; another piece of rhetoric from the Wise Alaundo. "The mountain collapsing-"  
  
"Wasn't your fault. Yet you have spent the three years since that awful tragedy trying to atone for it."  
  
"It's so hard, Elmo... He was a Godchild himself, the boy. And resurrecting them is no mean feat. With the Bhaalspawn, I guess it was not as much an issue – we were conceived by an avatar of a fallen god. But my nephew..."  
  
"Your nephew was a demi-god, and sits now on his father's lap, in the War Room of The Triad, plotting the downfall of evils across the Realms." Elminster smiled. "Would you take that from either of them?"  
  
Imoen did not answer; she merely wiped her teary eyes. "I fear, Elminster, what I may have sacrificed in my attempts to find magical methods of raising the boy. I realised how much of myself I was losing – how much I had already lost – when I fought the twisted, undead remnant of Paelios..."  
  
Elminster sighed; that was her fear. "That only happens to those mages who delve into Necromancy for their own benefit. What you have done has been for the benefit of another; you have never lost sight of that, I know."  
  
"But I looked into that fallen mage's eyes, and I saw my own, and I suddenly felt dark; I felt cold, and so very alone. I felt more alone in that brief instant than ever before in my life: more than when I first saw Gorion's body lying cold and dead in that glade east of Candlekeep; more than when Jonoleth Irenicus locked me in that jar in Spellhold and diced with my mind and my soul; more than when I said goodbye to my brother at the Throne of Bhaal."  
  
Elminster smiled, gently. "Such loneliness comes with powers as great as those you possess, Imoen; surely your time at Candlekeep taught you that much. How many of those 'learned sages' showed the barest glimmer of affection for another being?"  
  
"Gorion..."  
  
"Your foster-father was a different sort of sage. Much like you, he was taught by Road, not by Rote. The path of adventure gave him a different outlook on the world to the other men of Candlekeep. But even he, when he first realised the scope of what he could become, was terrified by it. And you, like he, have faced it and denied it. He would be ever so proud of you, Imoen."  
  
The young mage smiled, slightly, remembering Gorion and Winthrop and her other friends of Candlekeep. She had returned their shortly after her brother accepted his godhood, learning much from its ancient and dusty tomes – those same tomes she had mocked as a child, for being almost as old as the other inhabitants. As an Archmage in her own right, she had a new respect for such literature.  
  
While she had been engrossed in study, Minsc had returned to Rashemen. The noble warrior had spent the long journey expecting to be turned away at the gates of him homeland for failing in his Dajemma; his test of manhood. Instead, he had been welcomed with open arms. Skalds were already singing of his accomplishments while in Baldur's Gate and along the length of the Sword Coast. Minsc returned to the hero's welcome he deserved, and remained there until he received word from Imoen that she had need of him. He had travelled with her, a loyal companion and friend, ever since.  
  
The thought that Gorion had faced similar trials was comforting, in a way; it proved to her that all mages could feel thus, not just the evil, or more importantly those who had once carried the taint of Bhaal. She looked up to the elder wizard and her blue-green eyes shone with admiration and love for a man who had always been to her like a second father. "Thank you..."  
  
"No thanks are required, my girl. We all, at some time, need somebody to help us remember just how steady the ground beneath us is. By the way, I like that latest scroll you published! What's it called again?"  
  
"'Imoen's Fighting Phantom'. It's selling fairly well, actually – one more source of income with which to finance the setup of my Guild."  
  
"I found it very useful when set upon by some less-than-intelligent thugs just south of Shadowdale last month – I cast it a few times and left the bandits to work up a sweat fighting the three illusory barbarian spirits it created." Elminster chuckled.  
  
Imoen smiled, warmly, and laughed. "Well, it always does my heart good to hear of yet another satisfied customer."  
  
At that point, Minsc returned, a slightly bemused expression on his face; more bemused than usual. "Boo says that you turned that man into a dog for calling you 'that name'. You promised Minsc you wouldn't do that any more, remember?"  
  
Imoen smiled, and then did her best to look admonished. "I apologise, my noble protector. It shall not happen again, I swear."  
  
This more than satiated Minsc, who grinned and let out one of his Rashemen-accented belly laughs. "Minsc and Boo didn't like that one, anyway. Boo said he smelled funny."  
  
Imoen smiled. She had learned to trust 'Boo's' judgement on several occasions. As to whether or not Boo truly was a miniature Giant Space Hamster, Imoen had once laughed at the prospect, but now, with some years of magery behind her, she began to wonder. She had tried several psychic spells, and spells that conferred upon the caster the ability to speak with animals, and yet they seemed to have no effect when it came to Boo. When Boo squeaked, he just squeaked; according to the spell, his squeak's meant nothing. Imoen knew this could not be true, so she investigated the matter further. Though Minsc took some convincing to allow experiments upon Boo, and eventually Imoen had been forced to place the warrior in a magical slumber to examine the rodent more closely, the results of the investigation were astonishing. Mainly, that Boo was completely immune to any type of divining magic and, it would seem, was Toril's only immortal hamster; he did not age, and he could not be harmed through any conventional or magical means. He was truly astounding. Imoen had promised to devote more time to a study of Boo once her Guild was set up and she had time to indulge such scientific whims.  
  
"Tell Boo that I'll remember that next time I see Mister Moondown."  
  
Minsc nodded and wandered over to the other side of the clearing, chattering away to his little yellow companion. Elminster dusted down his robe and turned his head to face the forest.  
  
"And now I must away with me. I trust we shall not be as long between meetings from now on, yes?"  
  
"You mean now that I'm not wandering the world any more." Imoen grinned, impishly. "My door shall ever be open to you, old friend."  
  
The older mage simply nodded, smiled, and vanished into the forest. Minsc walked back to Imoen's side, both of them staring in the direction the mage had set off in; he was gone. Imoen folded her arms and smiled.  
  
"He has style, doesn't he." She asked, rhetorically.  
  
"Boo thinks he's not as doddery as he makes out to be. Minsc agrees."  
  
"As do I, my old friend." She gave Minsc a playful hug with one hand, tickling Boo's chin with the forefinger of her other. "And now we must away once again."  
  
Minsc looked a little saddened; this worried Imoen a little, for it was rare for the berserker warrior to be anything other than jovial. "What's wrong, Minsc?"  
  
"Boo was just getting used to the forest again, as was Minsc." His voice was as downcast as his face. Imoen tried to buck them both up.  
  
"It won't be long – and this time, when we come back we'll be back for good. I promise." She gave a cheerful giggle. Minsc reacted to this in a way she would never have expected.  
  
"Yes!" He picked Imoen up and swung her around in circles. "My witch has her laugh back! Boo is overjoyed!"  
  
Imoen found that she could not stop laughing. Had she really not 'giggled' in as long? By Mystra, Elminster was right. She might have lost herself, had it not been for his words. She made a note to give him a proper 'thank you' next time they met. Maybe she could make him a personalised piece of magical ware – something unique, just for him; a "Ring of Elminster", perhaps? She was pondering what magicks to endow the ring with as she, and her Protector, and his miniature Giant Space Hamster headed off into the woods. Once they passed through Neverwinter Forest, they would take the road north to a tavern she was familiar with. There was somebody there she needed to see.  
  
To Be Continued... 


	2. Taught By Road, Not By Rote...

Hi again! Well, the second chapter pretty much wrote itself. Thought I'd add a little bit of plot intrigue – call it corny if you must, but it's something I always wondered about – I mean, what would any low level Red Wizard in his right mind be doing that far west of Thay in any case? Also, because of the Mage Battle, I feel I should up the rating of this fic to PG. Thoughts on said Mage Battle would be appreciated: I tried to steer clear of the 'He cast this so I cast that' formula, but in the end that's all Mage Battles come down to. As for questions about the return of game characters, and just what exactly happened to Aerie and little Quayle, all shall become clear as the tale progresses :-) I must say that I don't intend the PC to appear in the story – partly because I want it to be generic in a way, and heck, he's had two amazing games devoted to him, so this tale is all about the guys he left behind to pick up the pieces. But he was a Swashbuckler Mage – level 11 Swashbuckler, and currently L25 Mage, but I'm playing through again so I can max him out for the release of Neverwinter Nights.  
  
Anyway, just to remind you, I don't own anything Baldur's Gate (or Neverwinter Nights) related aside from the games (but not Neverwinter Nights, 'cos it's not out yet). It's copyrighted by those lovely people at Wizards, Bioware and Interplay. And now, on with the show!!  
  
  
  
  
  
The only sounds Imoen could hear were the crackling of the campfire and the occasional scurries of small animals. Minsc had chosen where they made camp; just on the edge of Neverwinter Forest that they might rest now, sheltered from the elements, and travel by daylight. The clouds had come quickly; what had been a pleasant sunset had turned into a harsh torrent. Imoen had suspected that it was more than a benign act of Nature, but passed that off as paranoia.  
  
She was sat, cross-legged on her bedroll, reading her brother's journal. She probably should have gotten some sleep as she needed rest before memorising her spells, but she also needed to know something. And she had just found what she was looking for. She read aloud to herself, "I insisted we take it. Jaheira wanted to leave it where he fell – she seems to think the poor man deserves his fate. Aerie, however, sided with me and put it in her pack. It is an eerie object, and no mistake, for it does not seem to wither or rot; there is something poetic that it should behave so much like cold stone."  
  
Imoen sighed and put the book down, picking up another; another journal, dated some weeks later. She opened it and swiftly scanned through to the point she had book-marked. "Unfortunately our time is short. I know not how much longer my poor sister has before she fades. Damn Bohdi and Jon Irenicus! Damn them both to the Abyss! We shall have to move swiftly if we are to save Imoen. This means we shall have to postpone the errand of mercy I had been so insistent we complete but a month ago. Still, a few more days should make little difference. Aerie has agreed to carry it a little longer. And now to Linvail's headquarters; I only hope he will be forthcoming with aid, to preserve his guild if for no other reason." Imoen slammed the book shut.  
  
"They never... They carried it all that way and did nothing. And now Aerie has it; I thought as much. Oh my dear, what should I do now?" She leaned forward and petted the little pseudodragon before her, stroking down the length of its back.  
  
"My Lady, you know what you must do. You must speak to Aerie; show his letter and she will be reasonable, I am sure." The young familiar's voice was soothing to Imoen. She had named him Swiftwing but tended to shorten it to Swift.  
  
"But she hates me, Swift. And she hurt poor Minsc so much when she banished him from her sight that I feared he might take his own life."  
  
"And that is why you allowed him to take you as his Witch; the third that the strong Rashemen has called thus." Swiftwing nestled himself into Imoen's lap, tucking into the folds of her robe for warmth.  
  
"That's not true; I did not request his service out of pity, Swift. I need him, though I don't believe he realises how much. I'm not strong, Swift. I try to be – gods above KNOW I try – but I am no warrior. I never was."  
  
"He protects you as you protect him. Unless you are trying to subtly profess your love of him as something deeper than fraternal, I fail to see how there could be any confusion." Swiftwing grinned. Imoen playfully cuffed his ear.  
  
"You know I don't mean that. Minsc isn't, how can I put this, my type. Not that I don't feel he'll make some very lucky woman a good husband one day." She added, slightly louder, remembering that were Minsc awake he could hear the entire conversation. "I just don't like him in that way. No – what I mean is that Minsc could continue his journeys without me. He would still be the Rashemen Hero of Baldur's Gate. I, without him, doubt I could face the many evils I know await me."  
  
She glanced down at the letter Swift had referred to. Caspenar had given it to her when he delivered her brother's mortal possessions. It contained a few requests. The first, she had failed in, and spent three years trying to atone. The second, she had already completed. The body of Jaheira, who had fallen in the final battle with Melissan, had been raised from the dead long before Caspenar's arrival. The third she was doing, and would continue to do all her life: honour the memory of the foster-father they had shared. The fourth was just a strange attempt at humour on his part, Imoen believed. It had read, "Take thirty minutes each day, and thank Mystra that you aren't stuck here, with me, in the presence of the three stuffiest gods in any Torilian Pantheon". The fifth had been to set his affairs in order and act as executor of his last will and testament, given he no longer had use for riches where he was. His possessions were divided, according to his will, between several of those he had travelled with. Imoen herself had been given more than her fair share: enchanted Elven mail, magical cloaks, wands, staves, rings and more.  
  
Minsc had been given her brother's Cloak of Spell-Turning; magic had always been the one weakness of the great warrior, but shielded by this magnificent garment it rarely troubled him nowadays.  
  
Jaheira had been left some small monies and trinkets with which to further the cause of nature, since he knew it had been her intention to return to Trademeet and take over the Grove in that region.  
  
Mazzy had been left several magical swords, armour from the hides of no less than three different kinds of dragon, ensorcelled helms and shield, and some monies, and, of course, the Big Metal Unit which served to make her almost the size of an Adamantite Golem. All of these were to aid her in her quest to found an order of paladins dedicated to serving the Halfling goddess, Arvoreen.  
  
Sir Keldorn Firecam, the eternal soldier, had been left the great two- handed broadsword of Carsomyr, along with the bastard sword Purifier some jewellery for his daughters and good lady wife. He had also been given a large amount of money to donate to his Order, with whom her brother had always felt an affinity.  
  
Jan, the gnomish inventor, had been left the Big Metal Rod and its ammunition, so that he might use them to 'liberate oppressed turnips everywhere'. He had also been left some summoning devices that he could examine and disassemble to his heart's content. Jan had left their company once they recovered Imoen, but evidently her brother still felt he owed him some duty.  
  
Monies were put aside to erect statues to Gorion and Khalid, two great adventurers who had passed from the prime material to whatever awaited them. Imoen had overseen their construction in Candlekeep; when they were finished, stood brave and tall as they were, Imoen could do little but cry – a true homage to her foster father, and to her friend.  
  
Lastly, all that remained was left to Aerie. In terms of property and wealth, it came to well over 350,000 gold pieces – an immense fortune in anyone's book. Enough, he intended, so that she may purchase a grand estate in Suldenessallar and raise their son among the Elven peoples in a manner befitting the child of a God. Neither of which she had done.  
  
The sixth and final request he made of his sister was the one that concerned her most at present. It was this request that had her poring over his old journals to find scraps of information. Imoen understood why he would ask her; he felt he owed the man a duty, and her brother always repaid 'duty'. And though the book of Paelios had not contained information enough to bring back young Quayle, it had given her enough insight to finally complete the last of her tasks.  
  
She folded up the letter and placed it in one of the many pockets of her burgundy robe. Likewise she closed the journals and dropped them into her Bag of Holding which swelled a little, then contracted to the size of a small pouch. She tucked it into another pocket of her robe, and sighed, stroking her little familiar.  
  
"I suppose I should get some sleep..."  
  
As if in response, her little dragon let out a quiet snore. Imoen smiled, softly, and adjusted the folds of her robe to tuck the creature in, before sliding out of it and into her bedroll. After she was snug, the turned to the fire and with a few quiet words and slight gestures she caused the flames to flicker and die.  
  
Some time later, when he was certain Imoen was asleep and not listening, Minsc said a brief prayer. Not to Lurue, to whom he tended give prayer in thanks for the gift of Boo, but to the only god he had ever known in person.  
  
"Watch over your sister, oh god of Righteous Butt-Kicking – Minsc and Boo's witch needs you now more than ever. Guide her and comfort her, or know that when Minsc and Boo eventually go to the Halls of the Dead, we shall make a detour to wherever you are and mop the floor with your own buttocks!" Minsc whispered, and then added, as an afterthought, "Amen."  
  
And then there was silence.  
  
******  
  
Some ten hours later, Imoen closed the last of her spellbooks with a satisfying thud. It gave her no small amount of satisfaction to know she had been forced to add so many pages to her Travelling Spells book it now weighed in at almost as much as she did herself. She had brought her Travelling, her Battle and one or two of her specialist books with her on this journey. Minsc did not ask why, though he knew from it that she expected banditry, magic combat and who knew what else before they returned to the Forest of Neverwinter.  
  
"All done." She stated, chirpily, "We can be on our way now."  
  
She hefted the tomes back into her Bag of Holding and tucked it away about her person. She glanced around to make sure naught had been forgotten. Minsc had packed up their bedrolls and filled their wineskins with water from Neverwinter River earlier that morning, when Imoen had first begun memorising her spells. It was the curse of all magi that each morn they had to spend hours poring over books to rekindle the memory of each spell they knew. Sorcerers, dabblers, could cast spells at will until simple exhaustion took them, although they knew far fewer spells than their more learned counterparts.  
  
"Boo says we have enough food to see us to the Spellweaver Tavern, but Minsc will have to conjure water tomorrow as our skins will only see us through today." Minsc brimmed with pride at the word 'conjure'. Lurue had decided to confer some small divine spell-casting ability upon Minsc, probably due to his prowess as a Ranger, although it was probable that no small amount of pity was involved.  
  
Imoen nodded and removed her robe, revealing the Elven chain of Aslyerferund and walking hose. "It is just too hot to wear that thing." She folded it and placed it in her pack, which she swung over her shoulders. Quickly, she ran through a personal checklist. Equaliser, her long-sword, was in its sheath at her side. The short-bow of Gesen hung over her shoulder, yet another trophy of her adventures. Her staff of glass, glass that was as hard as steel and lighter than balsa, had been constructed by her with the aid of several enchantments and she carried it in her hand as a walking aid when needed. Her lucky rabbit's foot hung on a chain about her neck, along with an Amulet of Power. Pouches of spell components hung from her customisable belt, along with a few carefully chosen wands.  
  
Minsc was wearing the same garb he had worn the day previous, with the exception that the Helm of Balduran was now strapped in place on his head, and he wore his Cloak of Spell-Turning which gave the air around him a pale, barely noticeable blue shimmer. At his right side hung the Crom Faeyr, the dwarven hammer of legend that imbued its wielder with godlike strength. At his left, the Runehammer, made all the more powerful by the rune Caspenar had added to it just before their final battle with Melissan.  
  
"Minsc and Boo stand ready."  
  
Imoen smiled and led the way eastwards. They were in no great rush, at least not yet, and could afford to set a leisurely speed. They faced about half a day of travel over hills, then another half day over plains to reach the road. After that, they would bear north for a few hours before arriving at the township of Longsaddle.  
  
"We should get there by lunchtime tomorrow if we make a halfway decent pace." The young mage smiled, once again upon the road.  
  
******  
  
Lunch that day had been marvellous. Minsc was, though he blushed whenever it was said, an excellent cook. He had made a rabbit stew for himself and Imoen, and a miniature salad for Boo, followed by a fruit salad for all. Imoen had dabbed the edge of her handkerchief against her mouth at the end of the meal, and taken a sip of water.  
  
"Minsc, you have surpassed yourself", she said.  
  
He had just murmured some thanks and flushed red to the top of his bald head.  
  
That had been an hour ago, though, and now they were back on the trail, tracking over the hilly regions of Neverwinter in the blazing Flamerule sun. They only had a couple of hours more of this to go before they reached plains, and then the walk would become much easier. As it was, they were walking a dusty track through the middle of a valley, which fell away from view some hundred yards ahead of them where it began descending to lower hills.  
  
Imoen sensed the presence of the approaching mage before she could see him. She paused and held up a warning hand to Minsc, who instantly began subtly glancing around for whatever danger his witch had discovered. There had been no travellers on the road, barring themselves, all morning. Now, however, that seemed to change. Walking, somewhat indignantly, up the steep path in front of them, a man appeared. His features were indistinguishable at this distance, save for his bright red robes and the possibility of a red beard, though it may have been a scarf.  
  
Not that any man in his right mind would be wearing a scarf in this weather, thought Imoen, though her thoughts were interrupted by a low growl from her companion. It was at this point that she put two and two together to make four.  
  
"Edwin Odessarion..." Minsc's voice bore a deeper hatred than she had ever heard him express, save to Jonoleth Irenicus himself.  
  
Imoen and Minsc did not move until they could see the mage clearly. It was indeed Edwin the Red, or as Imoen preferred to call him, Redwin the Thayvian. He was a member of the Red Wizards, a magocracy which controlled the population of Thay through fear and oppression, though their extreme magical powers. The very idea of that kind of oppression made Imoen sick to her stomach, as it did to all who truly knew the power of magic. The Red Mages had the nerve to approach her to join their number as soon as they realised the scope of her powers. What they meant was they wanted her to bear a son to one of their more powerful mages, who would then divorce or more likely just kill her. They appreciated a good bloodline, she knew, but not a good wizard.  
  
Minsc had deeper, more personal reasons for hating Odessarion. Edwin had wished to kill the ranger's first Witch, the Rashemen mage Dynaheir. Upon hearing of her death, he proceeded to mock the ranger cruelly and it was only due to his timely expulsion from the party by her brother that the mage and Minsc did not come to blows; a fact that, for some reason, Imoen was beginning to now regret.  
  
The mage stopped his advance a few yards from the companions and eased his hood back just enough to look upon them unhindered by it. When he spoke it was in his thick Thayvian rasp and he had not lost the irritating habit of his to voice his thoughts at the end of each sentence, seemingly in brackets.  
  
"Ranger, I see you know protect a Witch who is worthy of my attention (Though just barely)." He addressed Minsc, sneering.  
  
Minsc did not respond, seeing Imoen indicate him to be silent. He knew that one day he would take revenge on this man, but he would not have his revenge endanger the plans of his current witch.  
  
"I assure you, Redwin, that I am not worthy of your attention. In fact, I am so unworthy of it that I advise you to keep on walking lest I discommode your vast intellect from its reigning seat within your cerebrum simply through my presence within your ocular vision and the entropy that such a low intellect as mine own is capable of causing, and replace it with more the more primal and carnal concerns of those less intelligent than your very educated self." Imoen silently congratulated herself on managing to at the same time insult him, compliment herself, and for once utter a sentence that caused the caustically over-confident mage to pause for a second so he could mentally translate.  
  
"My attention towards you is not of that kind, Imoen Bhaalspawn (But were the offer made, I doubt I would refuse)." He responded, mildly put out by the young woman's increased intelligence.  
  
"Then why? Surely it cannot be my prowess in the Art." Imoen said, sarcasm dripping from each syllable.  
  
"It is exactly that prowess; that, and the fact that you are creating a Mage Guild without first consulting the premier Mage Guild on Toril."  
  
"It is a Thieves' Guild – we merely intend to accept applications for membership that come from certain exceptional mages, and we may teach some facets of the Art to thieves who show an intellectual bent." She countered.  
  
"Be that as it may, the Red Mages want your assurance that their representatives, both official and unofficial, will go untouched by this Guild of yours. I have been sent here to collect written statement of that kind, signed by you and bound with a Geas (Why must the lower orders consistently attempt to outwit greater intellects than their own?)."  
  
Imoen shrugged. "Then I am afraid you shall return to your superiors unsuccessful. I shall give no such assurance to any organisation, least of all one that represents such great evil as your own."  
  
This response fazed Edwin slightly; he was not used to such defiance. But he had a response prepared for this eventuality.  
  
"I shall not necessarily be unsuccessful. I am required to return with either that contract or your head (Though it would be a shame to waste the brain inside.)."  
  
Minsc clutched the handle of the Crom Faeyr. As he did so, its sorceries flowed through him. His muscles, already impressive, bulged beyond reason. His eyes flared. Now was his chance for revenge...  
  
"Minsc? Leave us." Imoen said, coldly.  
  
Minsc almost dropped the Crom Faeyr. He turned to Imoen for some kind of explanation, "Boo is most befuddled! Shall we not righteously apply our feet to this evil butt?!"  
  
"He," Imoen whispered, a darkness creeping into her voice "Is mine."  
  
Minsc thought to respond, but his feet began walking back along the path they had come, of their own volition. Swiftwing, who had been flying alongside them, seemed to be under a similar enchantment, following the ranger. Minsc made a note to reprimand his witch; she was casting spells upon he, her own protector! And robbing him of righteous vengeance!  
  
But all thoughts of that vanished once he realised what she was doing. She was going to have a mage's duel with a Red Thayvian. The ultimate test of her prowess as an Archmage – the only greater challenge would be Simbul herself... Minsc suddenly feared for his witch and wished to fight this battle not for vengeance, but to protect her. Swiftwing floated to the ground and curled up into a ball, crying.  
  
"Boo wants to know if you are okay, little dragon."  
  
"My Lady feels she must fight this battle on her own. She needs to prove to herself that she can protect herself. And it's my fault."  
  
"No, it is not. What you said was true." Minsc lowered his head.  
  
"You were listening?" The little dragon's head peeped up.  
  
Minsc only nodded, then fell into silence. He could not fight this battle for his witch, and neither could her little dragon, or indeed Boo, because even if they won it for her, she would still lose.  
  
With Minsc gone, Imoen turned back to face Edwin.  
  
"Candlekeep rules or Thayvian?" She asked, absently checking her pouches.  
  
Edwin looked at her, incredulously. "You mean to duel with me?"  
  
"Of course!" She looked at him in mild disgust, "You cannot threaten an Archmage of Candlekeep without facing the consequences, Red Wizard. We fight using Candlekeep rules, since you will not make the decision. Now – ready yourself! Espirita Maysas Korolius!" A chain contingency began. Imoen felt her skin toughen to protect her from physical attacks. At the same time, a blue shimmer filled the air around her – Spell Turning. A Globe of Invulnerability and Protection from Magical Weapons finished the ensemble.  
  
Instantly, Edwin cast his contingencies, virtually mirroring hers with the exception of a Mirror Imaging spell. It was a common combination, but that did not mean it was ineffective. After that, showing great alacrity, he cast breach at the younger mage, dispelling her combat protections.  
  
Imoen knew exactly which image of Edwin was the real one; one did not survive long as a thief without knowing how to spot the small tell-tale differences that indicated illusions. She ignored the fakes and cast Khelben's Warding Whip on the 'real article'.  
  
"Witch!" Edwin screamed as his spell protections began to fail around him. "You shall suffer! Klirios Mostol Condros!"  
  
Imoen knew the spell he was casting and felt her stomach clench. She turned around, looking everywhere to see where it w-.  
  
"Argh!" She squealed as the Nishruu dove at her. The creature failed in its attack the first few times, but soon its tendrils plunged into her head, dicing with her mind, tearing up her carefully memorised spells like tissue paper. She looked up to see Odessarion readying another spell. Ripping herself free of the Nishruu, she swung her glass staff at Edwin with every ounce of strength she could muster.  
  
He caught it with ease in his left hand, his right casting an improved Pierce Magic spell that dropped all of her defences against magic. He grinned at her, "Out of magic already, great Archmage?" The last two words dripped with sarcasm. But he noticed that she, Imoen, was also grinning. He followed her stare to the rabbit's foot that her free hand was rubbing up the length of the staff. Immediately he knew what she intended and tried to get away, but it was too late.  
  
"Liros." Imoen said, quietly, and a bolt of lightning ran along the staff and into Edwin's exposed flank. He flew backwards screaming in agony, blue electricity crackling all around his body. He landed some ten yards away, giving Imoen the chance to un-summon his Nishruu with a Death Spell.  
  
The Red Mage scrabbled to his feet and turned back to face her. His robe was scorched by the lightning, and his teeth seemed to be crackling with it. "Zz-you are very powerful; zz-a tribute to your lineage, my zz-sister."  
  
Imoen dropped her staff, with which she had been readying another Lightning Bolt, to finish Edwin off. "What do you mean 'sister'?" She had lost her concentration – exactly what Edwin wanted. His hand swiftly drew a sulphur packet from his robe and he hurled it into the air.  
  
"Riliorus Pyros!" As he yelled the triggering phrase, the sulphur erupted into an immense Fireball that exploded against Imoen's chest, blowing her against the hillside and burning her pouches. She yelled in pain as her armour began to seethe, cooking her within it. Dextrously, she pulled her scorched satchel and baking chain mail over her head, but not before Edwin could begin his next spell. She eased herself up; only to drop to the ground again as a searing pain erupted in her left thigh, from which one of Melf's Acid Arrows was protruding.  
  
She could feel herself about to pass out from the pain. Her vision was blurring, those spells that had not been ripped from her memory by the Nishruu had been rendered useless when her component pouches were burned to cinders. She began to realise that she had lost...  
  
At this point, something inside her kicked in. The bit of Imoen that had always been there for others when times were rough and it seemed like there was no way out was finally there for her. She yanked a scorched parchment from her satchel lain beside her. The scroll was a Stoneshape spell, with no required components.  
  
"Toril Morsis Turius!" She screamed, at the top of her voice. The earth beneath Edwin began to open, a gaping chasm forming where he stood. He leapt forwards and managed to grab onto the edge of the hole. But Edwin was a heavy man, and he did little exercise that was not mental. He pulled himself up, though the effort required him to pause and get his breath back.  
  
The Red Mage looked over the edge as he gathered himself, seeing that the bottom of the chasm was covered with sharp outcroppings of rock that would have skewered him had he fell. He whipped around to where Imoen had lain, readying another spell as he did so, only to see her upright. Blood was pouring down her leg and the arrow lay beside her – she had ripped it out so that the second dose of acid could not affect her concentration. She had a spell readied also, one that most mages could cast without the need for components and foci. And hers triggered faster than his.  
  
"Pristos!" She called the final word of the incantation and a small magic missile sprang forth from all the digits on her right hand. The first smacked into Edwin, causing him little pain but forcing him to step backwards; and again, and again. The next one caused him to topple backwards into the chasm.  
  
Instantly he began calling the triggering phrase of a Levitation spell.  
  
"Travius Melsirio-"  
  
The fifth and final magic missile struck him, ruining his concentration and causing the casting to fail. In that instant, upon the realisation of his defeat, he screamed. "NO! Not like this! I won't be killed by Magic Miss-!" There was a noise like a man landing face down on a bed of craggy rocks after falling from about fifty feet. And then silence. And then, a combination of the pain from her wounds, loss of blood, and sheer exhaustion, caused Imoen to slump forward onto the grass, unconscious.  
  
******  
  
The next thing Imoen saw was a blurred pink object which, once her focus returned, transmogrified into a little pink nose. A little pink nose attached to a little yellow hamster.  
  
"Look, Boo! Your sniffling has awakened our witch! Hamsters and Rangers and Little Dragons rejoice!" Minsc yelled so loudly that Imoen winced. Slowly and in what she hoped was a dignified fashion, she sat up. She still felt light-headed, and her leg still ached, but the burns had gone. Swiftwing swooped down from Minsc's shoulder to his Lady's lap.  
  
She realised that she was in a tent, on her bedroll. "Where are we?" She asked, a little unsteadily.  
  
"Where we were; Swiftwing thought you would not wish us to move off without first dealing with the body of the vile mage. And, of course, Boo says you still have to close up that big hole in the ground; it may claim some innocent hamster or hedgehog who is not watching where they go."  
  
Imoen laughed, quietly. She had won, been victorious over a great Thayvian Mage, avenged Dynaheir and doubtless a thousand other wrongs the man had committed in his time. But she had also, now, made an enemy of the Red Wizards. She had expected them to make some sort of stand on the matter, but not as soon. They could cause a problem, but at least she knew of their intentions.  
  
Then her smile faded as she remembered Edwin's words. "My sister..." She murmured to herself.  
  
"My witch has no sisters, does she?" Minsc was confused.  
  
Imoen, realising she had been thinking aloud, smiled. "No, no. She doesn't. At least, not that I know of..."  
  
The implications of what the Thayvian had said... Could he be Bhaalspawn? No – all of them were killed save for Imoen and her brother, weren't they? Imoen knew from experience that the essence could be 'surrendered', but had Edwin had such an essence he would never have surrendered it – he was too power greedy for that. Besides, none of the Bhaalspawn save for her brother and the Five – And me, she added to the list with pride – could have defeated Edwin. And the Five would not have let him live, even if he had given them his 'taint'. Would they?  
  
These questions required answering... Or did they? No. She KNEW she was the last Bhaalspawn – the Solar had said as much. 'Only one other spawn of the dead god remains – she sibling who fought at your side'. So what could he have meant?  
  
Suddenly, like the hammer of Cromwell the Dwarf, a horrific thought struck her... She had never known her mother, and though her brother had discovered that his had been a Priestess of Bhaal, Imoen knew that many of the others had not been. One had been a giant and, from one encounter during her travels with her brother, she learned that one had been a rabbit. Was it then so unlikely that one could have been a Thayvian mage? The Red Wizards crossed spells with the Harpers frequently, so it was entirely possible Gorion could have found her in the aftermath of a set-to. It would go some way to explaining why her prowess in magery was, if anything, increased by the Taint of Bhaal leaving her... And had Edwin meant true sister, or merely a 'sister', meaning a fellow Thayvian mage. Or had it been merely a ruse to lower her guard? Had she killed her brother...?  
  
She shook such thoughts from her head and posthumously congratulated Edwin for causing her such consternation, even in death. She could not resurrect the mage; not without losing the friendship and trust of Minsc. And were two carefully chosen words in a battle with a known liar worth that? She reasoned not, though she made note to investigate the matter at a later date, probably starting at the Harpers and working from there.  
  
"Boo thinks you may have taken a knock to the head, yes?"  
  
Imoen smiled at her friend's concern. "No, I'm fine. I was just thinking... I mean, I was just thinking that we should move as soon as possible." She tried to stand, but her left leg gave way underneath her and Minsc had to catch her. He handed her the glass staff to lean upon, knowing that she hated him to pamper her and thus not carrying her himself, and led her out of the tent.  
  
A simple Stoneshape spell sealed the hole in the ground, and provided a fitting burial for such a man as Edwin Odessarion; swallowed, whole, by Nature herself. He had carried little of value, though a few of the gems in his wallet would fetch a good price when they reached town. The amulet he wore to enhance his casting abilities had, it seemed, crumbled to dust upon his death; not that Imoen would have worn it, as Thayvian magical artefacts tended to 'know their own', and do unpleasant things to good wizards attempting to don them. He had carried a few scrolls, though nothing she did not already have in her own collection. His robe was burned and tattered and bloody, and not particularly well enchanted, and so it had been left. The only other items of interest were a letter containing Edwin's orders, and a highly enchanted throwing-dagger that Imoen Identified as not only increasing the caster's own accuracy, but also possessing the ability to paralyse a target pierced by its blade and returning to the caster's hand as soon as it had done so.  
  
The letter read:  
  
My dearest Edwin,  
  
It is time for us to end this blight on our good name. The other zulkirs persist in ridiculing me for the continued threat posed by Imoen Bhaalspawn. I require you to find her; our spies indicate she is often in the Neverwinter area – any base Diviner may tell you more specific locations. Once you have found her, kill her. I would suggest using the old 'I need your signature on this Geas' ruse, where the Geas requires her to hold her breath forever or spend an eternity fighting in the Blood War.  
  
If you can possibly avoid it, do not fight her openly. She is stronger than even she knows and I cannot afford to lose any more allies, let alone siblings. Be well, my brother; return victorious or do not return at all.  
  
Your sister,  
  
Zulkir Lallara  
  
Imoen tried not to think too deeply on the subject, but found her thoughts drifting toward it for the remainder of their journey. His 'sister' mentioned a 'blight' on their good name; Imoen herself? What could she be to them? Was she truly Edwin's sister, and if so, the sister of this Zulkir – the highest rank of Red Wizard? When they first met, Edwin had shown no sign of it, but from all accounts he knew much more of her brother's lineage by their next meeting, in Athkatla. What if he had known after all? What if, back when they had first left Candlekeep, Edwin was 'sizing her up'?  
  
It kept her mind occupied, running through scenario after scenario, until after an otherwise uneventful journey, they arrived on the outskirts of Longsaddle; at a seemingly rough inn with a sign above the door, hanging by one of its two chains, which read: "The Spellweaver Tavern (Tradespersons use rear entrance)".  
  
"Are we Tradespersons, Imoen?" Minsc asked, quizzically.  
  
Imoen just smiled, shook her head, and entered. Her thief's instincts as sharp as ever, she ducked just in time to avoid being knocked unconscious by a flying tankard. Instead, it hit Minsc's broad chest and 'bonged' off his Gorgon Hide plate armour.  
  
There was a brawl going on which looked like it was going to be expensive in terms of replacement furniture. About half of the tavern patrons were mages and thus there were several pock-marks from magic missiles, scorch-marks on the wall where Burning Hands spells had been miscast, and the remains of what looked like it had once been a cheese plant before someone had Shocking Grasp'd it. Imoen grinned, widely; Minsc, in stark contrast, was horrified.  
  
"These are wizards! Some of them are," he added, in shock, "Women! Women-spellcasters! Drunk and brawling?!"  
  
Imoen chuckled. "Now you know why most of the sage's in Candlekeep foreswore alcohol."  
  
During Minsc's brief visit to Imoen's 'home', he had commented on the lack of variety in the public house. Imoen had just chuckled and shook her head, like she was doing now. Finally, Minsc understood why. He noted, in the one quiet corner of the Spellweaver Tavern, that some mages were just sat, slowly drinking their drinks and ignoring the brawl behind them.  
  
"Boo is wondering who those wizards are at the back that they can see such a fight and not feel the urge to join in the butt-kickingness of the situation."  
  
Imoen gestured toward the table he referred to. "They're Evokers, specialists in Evocation magicks – y'know, things like Fireball and Lightning Bolt. We other mages normally call 'em the 'Crowd Pleasers', because they do the spells that the kids remember and wow about. Admittedly, though, they're probably the only mages on Toril who can take their drink reasonably well."  
  
Imoen wandered towards the bar and glanced over the top. As she had expected, the tavern owner was hiding, clutching onto several anti-magic protective rings, amulets and circlets. She smiled and reached down, dragging the man up by his ear. This was somebody she knew so very well indeed. He was fat and bald, and there was little else one could say about him save for the fact that his broad smile was that of a man who had seen the entire world, only to realise that the best place in it was where he started.  
  
He clenched a fist and looked to swing at whoever had pulled him from his safe hiding place, only to turn around, pause, then break down crying and clasp Imoen in a nigh-on back-breaking bear hug.  
  
"My little Immy!" The man's booming voice caused the brawl in the middle of his tavern to cease immediately.  
  
Feeling slightly embarrassed, Imoen patted the old man on the back and said, gently, "It hasn't been that long."  
  
The man pulled away. "It's been four years or more! And you never wrote!" His voice became admonishing in a way, while still maintaining all the joy it had borne beforehand. Minsc watched the display with interest, as did most of the mages in the tavern, though a few had the decency to begin intense study of their drinks rather than observe this evidently very emotional reunion.  
  
"I'm sorry..." She hugged the man, almost breaking down into floods of tears herself. "I've missed you too, Winthrop..." 


	3. The Coin Is Tossed...

Okay – first off, I wish to apologise to Alain Boublil, Claude-Michel Schönberg and Herbert Kretzmer, and to Andrew Lloyd-Webber, T. S. Elliot and Don Black. It's just a little joke, guys – not worth suing me over or anything (not that we poor students could be sued for much). Secondly, Baldur's Gate and all characters starring in this fiction that were contained within the Baldur's Gate games are the property of those exceedingly nice people at Interplay, Bioware and Wizards. Thirdly, please R&R so I know of any areas that need improvement (or, heaven forbid, that don't need it ;-) ): I am new to this, and any and all constructive criticism is welcome. Lastly, I have no idea how long this tale will be – it appears to be dictating itself, with myself serving as merely the typist and proof-reader. I'm as curious to see how it ends as I hope you are. So, with that in mind and with no further adieu, the saga continues...  
  
  
  
  
  
A young woman sat in a small temple, dedicated to the goddess Aerdrie Faenya, and wept. She had done the same at least once a day, for almost three years. She would enter the temple, and those Suldenessallari who knew her would leave, quietly; likewise would those who did not, if only for the fact their fellows left. Once the temple was empty of all save the priests themselves, she would let out a heart-rending scream of anguish, and beg her goddess for forgiveness, and for knowledge. Knowledge of why her fair- haired, winged godchild had been taken from her. Knowledge of why his father, a god, had done nothing to prevent it. Knowledge of why that same god did not answer her prayers, though she prayed to him daily. And then, she would just cry – sometimes for a few minutes, sometimes for hours. And she would curse the name, the heart and the very soul of one woman.  
  
It had been HER fault... SHE was the reason that this woman had lost her world in but a few moments. The weeping woman herself was a priestess of Baervan Wildwanderer, a Gnomish deity, and Aerdrie Faenya, senior goddess of the Elven pantheon. She had been preaching at a Gnomish colony in the far west, among the mountains of Lantan Isle. The people here had long abandoned magic in favour of technology, and she had gone as part of a Gnomish Missionary movement from the township of Understone to remind the islanders that magic and gods still held a place in the world, even one graced with such technological wonders as they were capable of building.  
  
It had been at dawn, on the fourth day of Eleasias, the eighth month of the Torilian calendar, almost three years ago, that the world, literally, had come crashing down around this idealistic cleric. She, and a group of Lantanian Gnomes interested in spreading the words of Baervan Wildwanderer, had met early that morning and headed up the mountainside to witness the sunrise across Faerûn. The sun had, indeed, risen. But shortly afterwards, the mountain fell.  
  
The Gnomish scientists, some time later, once their grief had lessened, said it was what they called a Quake of the Earth Beneath. They had some theory about it being caused by big rafts of rock that the continents of Toril floated upon, but the woman had not wanted to hear it.  
  
Imoen, the woman that this cleric despised with all her strength, had been on the island, as well – she and that imbecile, Minsc. They had said they would watch over her and her child, but had told her the night previous of some goblinoids in the mountains that were harassing the local townsfolk. The woman had allowed them leave to go and deal with the raiders. But they never should have GONE. Their DUTY was to protect her son! Her son, who had been in the underground complex that the Gnomes had hewn into the largest mountain on the island. Her son, who had been crushed under millions of tonnes of rock when Toril itself had shaken and collapsed that mountain.  
  
Some two thousand gnomes had died in the disaster; most in the complex, several who were climbing back down the mountainside with the priestess after the sun had risen. As soon as she felt the ground tremble beneath her, she had used her wings – wings given to her by her husband once he had ascended to godhood – to fly high into the air. She saw what was happening, and flew as fast as she could to the complex entrance, only to be grabbed by a just-returned Minsc, who held onto her so she would not fly to her own demise. Imoen was trying to teleport the child to safety, but she needed to scry his exact position first. She had just located him and was readying the spell, when the view in her crystal ball showed a heavy rock land on the child. Minsc turned away and was violently sick; Imoen held her stomach, continuing the spell – maybe the boy was just injured. The view then blackened completely as the entire 'ceiling' gave way. What Imoen retrieved from the building was not a body. There was not enough left of the toddler to constitute a body.  
  
The priestess had immediately set about a resurrection spell. It failed. As did every spell like it that the cleric knew. The children of the gods were just not that easy to save... She had cursed Imoen, truly, and Imoen had been forced to return to the mainland to find a priestess who could lift it. The woman had likewise banished the proud Rashemen warrior, Minsc, from ever coming into her sight again. Minsc followed Imoen, feeling somewhat responsible for the state that the Mage now found herself in. What happened to them after that, the woman did not know and did not care. They had ceased to exist in her own private universe, at least until now. She had taken the remains of her son, such as they were, to the Elves of Suldenessallar, whose clerics were much more powerful than she, and had remained there these past years despite their lack of success.  
  
And now SHE comes back, thought the woman. She wishes a boon of me. What would you have me do, oh father of my child? You, who hath forsaken me and thy child, you would have me aid the witch and her fool in their quest. But as you turned your back on me five years ago, MY LOVE, I turn my back on you now. She shall not have what she seeks – not while I still have strength. Have your godhood, my love, and I shall have my vengeance...  
  
With those thoughts in mind, the woman ceased her weeping and arose. She had but a few days to prepare, though that was more than enough. Her blonde hair, once long, had been cropped short. Her innocent blue eyes were now dark and cold, her cheeks red raw from years of tears. Her pretty face had lost much of its beauty, if only because the curious smile she had always worn no longer adorned it. The sight of this, and knowledge of her thoughts, made one god scream in pain and loss – his screams were heard across all of Toril that night. There was nothing left but bitterness within his Love-eternal; the woman for whom he had waited every lonely minute of every lonely day since the moment he received his divinity, for their reunion. His Aerie... Likewise, a small child sat on that god's knee cried out with grief and sorrow. "Mama..."  
  
******  
  
Winthrop spared no expense for the dinner that followed his young protégé's arrival. Before Imoen had taken up the Art, she had been a thief. Many of those abilities had been enhanced by tutelage from Candlekeep's former-adventurer barkeep. He realised that she was getting a bit too good when he had ended up chasing her around the grounds of the keep trying to recover four coppers she had snatched from his back pocket.  
  
When she left after Gorion, it had been Winthrop who had caught her at the gates of Candlekeep. It had been Winthrop who had given her a quick hug, handed her a wand of magic missiles and a few healing potions, kissed her forehead and closed the doors after her so none would be the wiser 'till morning. It had been Winthrop who, upon her return after the battle with Melissan, had ensured she got her old room, which he had kept exactly as she had left it all those years ago. It had been Winthrop who stood with her before the marble statues of Gorion and Khalid, and held her as she wept. Winthrop was, if Imoen had a family, the overweight uncle with a heart to match; the type of relative who buys their nephews and nieces alchemy sets because firstly, he knows it's what they want, and secondly, it's not his carpet they'll set fire to.  
  
Shortly after she left, he had moved north to an inn that had been willed to him by his late brother. It was fairly dilapidated, but it had a small theatre on the second floor, and, more importantly, his OWN nephew and niece needed somebody to look to them. His brother had married a Tiefling woman, though it was always said that there were fewer more decent and just people anywhere in the realms than she, breaking the stereotype of her race as thieves and rogues.  
  
They had borne children later in his life, but the Tiefling aged slower than he and both of them were born healthy. The girl was called Yrnaeris; the younger but most intellectual, she had begun study of the Art at an extremely early age, aided in no small fashion by the number of mages who frequented the tavern. Her brother, and senior by three years, was a bard and would-be author. He was also very involved with the writer of this history – namely, he is me.  
  
An introduction of myself would not go amiss at this point. I am Kyrnor Winthrop, though you probably know me by my pen-name, Kyr Tanar'rikin, so chosen to acknowledge the Tiefling in my blood. At the time of writing, I sit in the same inn I tell you of now, my aging uncle still tending bar beneath me, and a team of mummers rehearsing a play of my own invention above me. The play they perform is the same play I petitioned my uncle to allow me to commission all those years ago, in front of what I believed to be another of the 'stuffy' mages that tended to visit him. Oh, how wrong I was.  
  
"But uncle!" I pouted like the spoilt child I was back then – in my defence, however, I ask the reader to understand that I was but eighteen and barely adolescent in terms of my race, "It'll make us business, I swear! I've done dema- demi- domo-"  
  
"Demographic." Imoen supplied between mouthfuls of roast beef.  
  
"Thank you," I said, less than courteously and moderately annoyed at the assistance, "Demographic surveys that show the customers would like to have music on the stage."  
  
"They think you mean Opera, not this new-fangled 'play-interspersed- with-songs' idea of yours. And can you not think of a better name for it?"  
  
"I was thinking of calling it a Lyrical, because of the song lyrics. Or maybe a Thespo-Choral, since it contains both acting and singing."  
  
"How about a 'Musical'?" Imoen asked, gobbling down roast potatoes.  
  
"Don't be silly – that'll never catch on." I retorted. I turned back to my uncle. "Please, Uncle! Let me try! I know – I have my Lyre with me,"  
  
"Oh gods..." My uncle inserted in my breath between sentences.  
  
"I'll show the good people the opening song! The play is about an uprising of slaves in the Far East, which is tragically crushed by the armies of their oppressors." I must admit to being slightly impetuous when first I met the Archmage of Neverwinter. But I must also admit to being of some notable talent with the Lyre, an ability I unfortunately lost some time ago. I recited my song to those present; my uncle and sister, Imoen, Minsc and, of course, Boo. It went something like this:  
  
Do you hear Rashemen sing?  
  
'Tis the song of an angry land;  
  
It is the music of Rashemi  
  
Whose freedom is now at hand.  
  
Centuries spent underfoot,  
  
Slaves to the Red Wizards of Thay,  
  
But the tyrants shall get the boot  
  
At the break of day!  
  
At this point I was interrupted by thunderous applause from the gallery. Minsc stood from the table and clapped as loud as a hundred critics. It was possibly the proudest moment of my youth.  
  
"Bravo, little bard! Bravo! Minsc and Boo stand in the presence of a master! We love your little song! It will go down a storm in Rashemen."  
  
Imoen sulkily placed her chin in her cupped hands, and murmured, "Yeah. A storm of ice, fire and lightning the first time a Red Mage hears it." It was more than a little childish a position for such an accomplished wizard to adopt, but Imoen had been feeling more and more her old self with each passing minute in my uncle's company, and it was beginning to show in her manner.  
  
"They would not dare, surely! Oppression of the masses is one thing, but oppression of art? Pah! That would really display their tyranny to the world." It was a sign of my naïveté at that point that I could believe an organisation like the Red Wizards incapable of something so base as vetoing a play, and a sign of my conceit that I would judge the prohibition of a piece of theatre as a more heinous crime than the slavery of thousands. I turned back to Minsc, who appeared to be my only supporter, "That part works; the only problem I'm having is fitting in the dancers in the cat costumes and the mysterious masked man called the Spectre of the Opera, representing the death of old Opera and the birth of my new kind of play."  
  
It was at this point that my sister spoke. She had been quiet most of the meal, quiet and thoughtful but now, when she spoke it was almost a scream.  
  
"Where is Antoinette?! You've hidden her again, Kyr, haven't you!"  
  
"No I haven't touched that flea-ridden moggie of yours!" I yelled, indignantly, safe in the knowledge that I had sealed the cat in the wine cellar once again.  
  
"She is NOT flea-ridden! She's as fine and as smart and as clean a black cat as exists in all of Faerûn! I won't have you speak ill of my Familiar!" My sister's response only served to increase my own hilarity at the situation. I burst out laughing. She began to cry.  
  
"She has a black cat?" Imoen asked of my uncle, a note of concern creeping into her voice.  
  
"It is not what you think, Immy. She is a good girl, sweet as any I've ever known. She did not summon it to be her Familiar; she saved it from a drowning four years ago, when the blacksmith across the way decided that the creature was too scrawny to fetch a decent price, or even to give away. Antoinette was the only black cat of a grey-striped litter, and without a doubt she was scrawny, but Yrnaeris nursed her to health. When Yrnaeris began showing some prowess in the Craft, the cat chose to slip into the role of Familiar; it does not reflect on my niece."  
  
Imoen raised an eyebrow, but nodded. Black cats tended to be taken as Familiars by magi of a chaotic bent, with no compunction to do good within the Realms. Such wizards were, in Imoen's opinion, one very small step from the evil mages she had fought most of her life. Of course, it was not entirely unusual for a family pet to become a Familiar; if a child had reared an animal from birth, then the psychic tuning required between Mage and Familiar was often already in place – it just needed a little supernatural push.  
  
It was at that point I first caught a glimpse of the powers of Imoen Archmage. She looked at me, deeply, and her mouth moved in silent incantation. A few seconds later, she looked from me to the wine cellar's trapdoor. She waved a fleeting gesture toward it, the catch unlocked itself and the door swung open. Antoinette leapt out, cast me a reproachful glance, and hopped onto Yrnaeris' lap. She knew spells that could determine the thoughts of another being, a horrifying prospect to an amateur mummer and cutpurse such as myself.  
  
The rest of the meal passed in virtual silence. I only dared look up from my meal twice. Both times, the icy stares of this strange wizard and my uncle forced my own back down in shame. At about a quarter to ten in the evening, my uncle sent myself and Yrnaeris to our rooms. He then talked to Imoen and Minsc until the small hours of the morning. I could hear the entire conversation through my floorboards, but it contained little that I found interesting.  
  
"So why did you come here, then, if not to see old Winthrop."  
  
"That's unfair – you know it's always a pleasure to see you. I head into town tomorrow, in the early hours, with Minsc. We will speak to your local Sage, Walthorn, and request the use of his Portal to Nashkel. From there, we'll make a set a brisk pace southwards through the Cloud Peaks, past the Twin Towers and out into the plains of Amn. We aim to reach Suldenessallar in three days at the latest."  
  
"You would take the Cloud Peaks?! Are you mad, child?"  
  
"No – it is the quickest way."  
  
"And the most perilous! White dragons make their homes in those mountains, not to mention all other kinds of riff-raff; Gnolls, Kobolds, Hobgoblins, even Trolls at this time of year. Why risk all of that to get to Elven country?"  
  
"To keep a promise." Imoen said, abruptly. She did not wish to be drawn on the subject.  
  
"Well," Winthrop sighed, "If you intend on getting that old coot Walthorn's good will, I'd suggest not rousing him 'till at least brunch- time."  
  
"I have money enough to buy the Sage's good will a thousand times over."  
  
"Yes, but Walthorn has reached an age where he doesn't really care for money, my girl." Winthrop spoke as he had done so many years, when teaching her the 'do's and 'do not's of burglary – a tutor's tone. "He won't let you use his portal if you wake him from his rest, and that's a certainty; best to wait until eleven in the morning, at the earliest. Three hours either way shouldn't be too much of a bother, no matter how urgent your task is."  
  
"Very well – you know him better than I, so I shall defer to your judgement. So, my teacher, how does life in the big wide world sit with you after the relative calm and dreary sameness of running the tavern in Candlekeep?"  
  
As to his response, I did not listen. I was too busy thinking what amazing plays I might right about a journey through those mountains. I went to sleep some minutes later, dreaming of the beautiful, graceful terror that is a Great White Wyrm in flight...  
  
******  
  
My sister and I woke up early that morning, both thinking along similar lines. Yrnaeris had long spoken of leaving the Tavern and seeking Apprenticeship, maybe with old Walthorn, or maybe at Candlekeep with a reference from her uncle. I had long spoken of seeing foreign lands to give me more subject matter for my plays and stories, not to mention making some small fortune on the way.  
  
We sat for some time, discussing it, negotiating. Eventually we came to an agreement: we would leave home together to seek our fortunes, with Imoen Bhaalspawn; I would not in any way, shape or form harm her kitty and she would not bother me with her incessant whining while I wrote or recited. It was a mutually beneficial settlement. All we had to do was talk to our uncle about it. Oh, and get the good will of Imoen.  
  
Imoen herself was roused fairly late in the morning at ten of the clock. Minsc had been up for some time already and was helping my uncle, in the kitchen, to fill the bellies of the breakfast-time customers. When there was a lull in the proceedings, which tended to occur at about half past ten, we collared our uncle and told him of our intentions.  
  
Imoen, by this time, was readying for her departure. That morning was the coldest day of the summer so far, and indeed the coldest summer day I can remember since. Imoen had donned her burgundy robe, gathered her packs and replenished her spell components from her stores within the Bag of Holding she carried. My uncle had given them an old antique bottle of his from his adventuring days; one enchanted such that never ran dry of water.  
  
They were out onto the street when I, in my leather jerkin with a pack slung over my shoulders and carrying my mother's long-sword, and my sister, carrying her spellbook in the crook of her arm, a pack on her back and her cat clinging onto the hood of her gown, ran up to them. We overtook them and turned to face them head on, stopping the two adventurers in their tracks.  
  
"Has your uncle forgotten something, child?" Imoen asked of me, not unkindly.  
  
"We want to come with you." I said, slowly and deliberately.  
  
"Very funny, boy. Now let us pass; we have much to get done today and we are already behind schedule."  
  
I was about to respond when my sister, a full eighteen inches shorter than I, barged in front of me, clasping her spellbook to her chest. "I want to be your Apprentice, My Lady, if you will have me." I had never seen such conviction in my sister's eyes. Though I was often accused of being a dreamer and a silly heart in my youth, she had always been the flighty girl with a head too full for her own good.  
  
Minsc, to my surprise, turned to Imoen. "Boo does not think they jest with us, my Witch. He, and Minsc, think they be earnest and strong hearts that say these words, not those of silly children. Boo would urge you to give them a chance..."  
  
At this, Imoen smiled. "You, my faithful warrior, would have me take these children through the Cloud Peaks? If we were just going back to Neverwinter Forest then I might think differently, but the road we take is harsh and dangerous. It is not for amateur playwrights and their sisters." Her face hardened. "You would run away from your uncle?"  
  
At this point, I noticed that my sister's eyes were no longer on Imoen. They were fixed on a first floor window of the tavern: our uncle's bedchamber. He was sat at his desk, crying. Imoen noticed, too, and followed both of our lines of sight. She stood for a few, long moments, then turned back around, dabbing her cuffs against her eyes to dry them.  
  
"Very well, then, if you have already broke the topic with your uncle, and he has consented, then I can do little out of duty to him other than take you. But there is a price." She added, glancing back up to the window. "You shall take what monies you have to the magic shop in town. You shall buy two matching Mirrors of Seeing, and shall give one to your uncle. And once a week, without fail, you shall speak to him through the mirrors and tell him of what you are learning. Understand?"  
  
"Those things cost a fort-" I began, but my sister elbowed my stomach, winding me into silence.  
  
"At once, my Mistress." Yrnaeris said, and dragged me off to the town's magic shop. As it turned out, she had been working for the old mage who ran it whenever she used to 'go out to meet friends', the only social intercourse the young teenager had – or at least, had seemed to have. She had worked for a pittance; just to hold such magical items would have been payment enough for her, truth be known. But it meant that she could haggle the shopkeeper down to a reasonable price for two of the Mirrors – she knew exactly how much they cost to make. Pooling our lives' savings, a whole two hundred and fifty-one gold pieces, three silvers and five coppers, we bought the mirrors and quickly ran back to the tavern. We handed a mirror to our uncle, said our goodbyes – properly, this time, with no hurried farewells – and went back out into the street, as Travelling Companions of the famed Imoen Bhaalspawn.  
  
Our chests swelled with pride as we walked, being out on the road for the first time. I even felt kinship with my sister – for probably the first time in our lives. We had always been opposite sides of the coin, she and I, always squabbling to see who came out on top. Now, that coin had been thrown up into the air so high it might never come down, and who landed face-up did not seem important any more.  
  
Yrnaeris showed her skills as a diplomat once again upon arrival at the home of the Longsaddle Sage, Walthorn. As we approached, she turned to Imoen and said, "I know the Sage, ma'am. I used to tidy his house some evenings in exchange for scrolls of simple spells, so I might copy them into my spellbook."  
  
"I see. Do you think you might be able to shave a copper or two off our transportation costs, then?" Imoen asked, smiling to her new Apprentice.  
  
How Imoen felt about getting an Apprentice was something she only told me some considerable time after the event itself. It had, at first, been a moderately elating sensation. The idea that a child may wish to be taught the Art by her, barely more than a child herself, caused her pride to swell to enormous proportions. After that, the novelty of having an Apprentice slowly wore off; it was replaced by the knowledge of having a true and good friend at her side, and one of those, she always said, was worth a hundred indifferent Archmagi.  
  
"I may be able to get us travel for free, my Lady, if you will let me try." The young maiden smiled, her tail sweeping arcs behind her.  
  
A description of my sister may be of help at this point, because there is no 'generic' description of Tieflings, taking for example 'Shorter, skinnier humans with pointy ears' as being a 'generic' description of Elven. My sister had our mother's over-large eyes, sapphire and sparkling of iris and jet black of pupil. She had a ponytail of chestnut hair that reached her ankles when she stood upright; the side- length of her hair reached her elbows and held a natural kink.  
  
She had pale, almost snow-white skin, not that you would notice with the 'Very Proper' sage-green velvet gowns she tended to wear, which closed at her chin and ran long enough to trail on the ground. Aside from the large eyes, there was little to afford her as being not of Elven stock, since her ears came to pointed tips. Aside, that is, from her tail. Children had mocked her in school for her little tail, with its little green bow strapped at the tip. They soon learned to stop mocking when they realised that it was as effective a flail as any a blacksmith could forge, and her 'flail' was, so-to-speak, closer to hand.  
  
The effect was completed by the small reading-glasses that hung at her chest from a cord about her neck. She had been cursed with weak eyes, a curious mind and a father who believed in 'lights out' time. The eventual result was a mage who, through self-imposed eye strain, needed reading- glasses to read her scrolls and spellbook.  
  
And it was this young woman, in a Very Proper sage-green gown, who knocked on the Sage's door while the rest of the party stayed a respectful distance back. What happened next surprised me to say the least – my sister dropped to the dusty cobbles. The door was opened a little and a staff prodded through the gap, at about 3 feet from the ground, for a few moments. Hearing no pained noises from the far side of his door, a slightly disappointed short Human, so short that he might have been mistaken for a Gnome in a bad light, opened the door fully. My sister got up off the ground and dusted herself down.  
  
"Ah, child – do come in." The man's voice was throaty and weak, a sign of his age.  
  
"I have some friends with me, Walthorn – heroes of Baldur's Gate and Athkatla. One is a mighty Ranger and the other is," My sister leaned down to whisper into the old man's ear. A few moments later she stood up straight once more. He raised an eyebrow at her, and she nodded.  
  
"You have been apprenticed by an Archmage of Candlekeep?"  
  
"Aye, Sir. But only if I can convince you to do me this one favour..."  
  
My sister batted her eyelids. I could not see, from where I was, but I could tell; whenever she batted her eyelids at a male of any race, they tended to blush, just as Walthorn was doing now. When he spoke again, it was with a flustered, but agreeable tone. "Very well, bring them in. But be quick about it – I ain't getting any younger!"  
  
The Sage turned around and walked back into the pitch blackness of his home. The building was set apart from those around it – an interesting fact, given that even the few stately homes of Longsaddle were terraced. I had always assumed that the doddery old fool had blown up his house once, and when it was rebuilt his neighbours insisted it not touch their walls.  
  
The outside walls of the house were painted duck-egg blue, with tiling on the roof to match. The inside walls were decorated with nothing. The inside floor, however, was decorated with ancient tomes of magic, papered with scroll cases, and carpeted with something that may have been 'shag pile' but smelt to me suspiciously like a fungus of some sort. It was pitch darkness in the room which though it caused me very little difficulty due to my race's inherent darkvision, caused Imoen and Minsc some very amusing problems.  
  
CRUNCH! "Minsc and Boo are sorry, little man, but we appear to have stepped on something little and breaky."  
  
"Don't worry about it – nothing I can't fix, I'm sure."  
  
"Will you be careful where you're going, you big lummox?" Imoen asked, laughing, "Try to be- Oh gods above what HAVE I stepped in?"  
  
I glanced down at her feet and grinned. "You don't want to know. I just hope you're carrying spare shoes, My Lady."  
  
"Less of that, Squire, or I'll leave you in Nashkel." She joked and continued on; making sweeping arcs with her feet just off the ground of the areas she would step in before she stepped in them.  
  
Eventually, after a few minutes, a blinding light appeared before us – or rather, before me. My sister had expected the man to light a lamp and had shut her eyes. Imoen and Minsc found the light a relief. Only me, with my dark vision staring straight at the light found myself blinded.  
  
"Now, we're about to the portal." The man said, hooking the lamp to his staff.  
  
"Where are we? Is this building transplanar?" Imoen asked, fascinated. The house had looked little more than a fifteen-yard square from outside.  
  
"Always looking for the complicated answer, you Southerners. No, it's not transplanar – we're underground. If you paid attention, you'd notice we were walking down a slight slope all the time."  
  
"Ah." Imoen replied feeling slightly embarrassed. She had gotten so used to High Magicks that she had overlooked something as simple as a RAMP.  
  
A few more minutes along this tunnel, Minsc let out an accented grunt of pain. "Ow! Little man, your tunnel may be tall enough for you and Boo, but it is too short for the likes of Minsc!"  
  
The Sage chuckled. "Just duck, Rashemen, and be thankful you aren't making the walk to Nashkel instead."  
  
Minsc sighed, mumbled a bit to Boo, and continued along. Eventually, they reached a door. It seemed to distort the space around it, looking about twenty feet high while fitting in a five foot tunnel.  
  
"Now this," the Sage said to Imoen, "Is transplanar."  
  
Imoen stepped forward, looking at the door closer. It was constructed of gold, that much was obvious. The door was bisected, with a handle at either side of the middle. Runes were inscribed about its edges in a language that Imoen wished she had more time to study. It did not even look like it belonged on Toril.  
  
"This is amazing! I had heard there was a portal here, but I had no idea..."  
  
"You had no idea that it was a portal that originated in another plane. It surprises most people." The Sage paused. "Well, actually, it doesn't surprise many people, because most of them wouldn't know an extraplanar rune if it stood up and beat them about the head. Fairly impressive head on your shoulders, for a Southerner."  
  
Imoen smiled and traced her fingers across the runes, only to pull her fingers back as though they had been burnt, though they were unharmed. "It's beautiful, but at the same time-"  
  
"Eerie beyond all reason. That's because it is an Abyssal Portal – one of those they use to steal souls from the Fugue Plain. It found its way into the ground beneath this terrace, instead. The devil that came through burrowed all the way along to my house. I slew it, but my home was almost entirely destroyed in the process. After I rebuilt my house, I tried to manipulate the portal myself – I thought it might make a useful private route to Baldur's Gate. Closest I could get to the city, unfortunately, was Nashkel. Still, it shaves about two months off the journey for me. And it'll shave the same off for you."  
  
Imoen nodded to the Sage. "I thank you, Sir, and am in your debt. Know that Imoen of Candlekeep owes you a Favour."  
  
The Sage nodded, understanding the 'code'. Imoen owed him a Favour. With Archmagi, Favours did not mean a half a pint of milk from a neighbour. If he ever found himself battling another Devil, he could call upon her for support; or if he needed an errand run that was too dangerous to be performed by a mere wizard.  
  
"As you would have it, Lady Imoen." The little Sage said as he clutched the handles of the door and heaved backwards. The doors gave way and swung apart, creaking and groaning as they went. "Might I present the Longsaddle Portal." The Sage panted with the effort, and then smiled at us.  
  
All of us stood agog at what stood before us. What I saw there, I shall never be able to describe; some things are too beautiful to be confined to paper. Just know, ye reader, that I have never seen such a display of colour, shape and form as I did when those doors opened; I was awed by an eternal sunset.  
  
"There you go. Now go through quickly, and once you're in Nashkel take a few steps to the right. It'll stop you falling on top of each other. You first, Lady Imoen." The Sage stepped back and pointed at the Portal.  
  
"Okay..." Imoen swallowed back her fear, patted Swift who was hiding in her pack, and stepped through.  
  
"Rashemen – now you."  
  
Minsc kissed Boo's nose, then hid him about his person and stepped through.  
  
"Miss Yrnaeris. May the gods be with ye, lass. Come back to us safe, and an Archmage, and with every other good thing." The Sage leaned forward and hugged my sister; an amusing sight, given that she stood a foot taller than he, but I did not laugh. The Sage then stepped back and patted Antoinette, who hopped into my sister's arms atop her spellbook, ready to face whatever lay beyond the portal, with her Mistress.  
  
"Goodbye, Wally. You watch yourself, okay?" My sister smiled, and stepped forward into the swirling psychedelic sunset.  
  
"And now you, boy. Look after your sister, you hear?" The old man smiled.  
  
"I will, Walthorn. Count on it." I smiled, coiled myself back and stepped forward with a spring into what had to be the most beautiful sight in the Realms. I was therefore not unreasonably disappointed when I instantly appeared in the town of Nashkel... 


End file.
